A Flourish of Hate

December 1, 2011
By mcintoae BRONZE, Bellevue, Nebraska
mcintoae BRONZE, Bellevue, Nebraska
2 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
“Who's to say what's proper? If everyone decided that wearing a codfish on your head were proper, would you wear one?" -Alice (Alice in Wonderland)

Stirring the hot soup, the chef infused various spices that would make the soup flourish. A mischievous grin was spread across his pale, unshaven jaw. He mumbled, “Stupide pute immonde. Cela va vous montrer de temps en pour tous ceux qui le jumeau succès est,” and wiped beads of sweat off the abyssal lines on his forehead. Looking over his shoulder he noticed that he was alone in the cluttered kitchenette. His thin lips twitched and he ladled some broth into an off-white, cracked bowl. He drew a petite vial of clear liquid from his stained apron pocket and discretely poured it into the bowl. “One last ingredient...” he whispered with a heavy and slurred accent. A stream of saliva dripped from his smirking lips into the liquid. It broke the surface and floated slowly to the top. Almost yellow in color, it bubbled and thickened with the broth. Just then, a stout waiter barged through the double doors, his rubber shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. “Where is table nine’s order?” he snarled in a hushed and impatient tone.
“Right here, Monsieur.” The chef carefully passed him the bowl. His lips cracked and stretched with satisfaction, revealing the few cigarette stained teeth he had remaining. The waiter shot the French man a look of disgust, his eyes fixed on the chef’s decaying mouth. He whipped his head around, his cleanly shaved chin pointed toward the ceiling, and hurried out of the kitchen into the dining room.
The chef stepped to the kitchen doors with a sway in his step, his hands linked behind his back, and peered out of one of dusty circular windows. His sagging, heavily-lashed eyes lingered on the young woman seated at table nine. Her dark hair was tied up in an elegant style and her tall blue gown puddled at her pale feet. She was just handed the restaurant’s special from a waiter who wore a Cheshire grin and rubber shoes. She nodded her head in thanks and the chef watched her lips move: “Merci.” He could almost hear her soft voice ringing in his ears. The chef’s eyes drifted to her hand as she was now raising the spoon from her bowl. Her slightly crooked smile beamed at the man sitting across from her, she inhaled the soups aroma and, finally, let the broth trickle past her painted lips.
The chef tore his eyes from her and he pushed his thumbs into his sockets. A fleeting thought ran through his mind: Qu'ai-je fait. A thick hand smoothed his stringy hair and a wicked snear returned to his face. A chopped chuckle broke from his gullet. The chef snatched a butcher knife from a counter scattered with molding dishes. Throwing both hands high into the air, his crow grew louder and louder. He stabbed towards the ceilings as tears cleaned streams of dark grime from his face. Quickly, he snapped his head towards the window, his expression immediately silenced. He walked briskly to the window once more and stared barbarously out of it.
The woman’s hands were grasped around her bony neck. The tendons and ligaments were prominent under her thin flesh. She stood up quickly and knocked her chair over in the process. A few heads turned in her direction. A couple diners hurried quickly over to her, practically fighting each other off to save a life. Falling to her knees, manicured fingernails clawed down her breast, leaving inflamed cuts trailing. Her no longer gleaming eyes desperately searched for contact with another, but the red-stained tears were clouding her vision. Women grabbed their children by the wrist and pulled them out of the restaurant, covering their children’s eyes and averting their own. The young woman’s escort calmly scooted back his chair and walked towards the door. Before stepping out, he shifted his eyes to meet the chef’s and then lowered his brimmed hat to cover his sockets with shadow. Vomit garnished with blood seeped from the unfortunate woman’s throat and her widened gaze finally locked with the chef’s. His eyes crinkled with delight, but the ravines under them still filled with wet. He had seen enough. Letting out a deep chuckle, he calmly strolled back to his counter and began chopping vegetables. The toothless smile gaped wider while he listened to the gurgling screams coming from the drowning lungs of the young woman and he began humming merrily to himself.

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